


Protection

by Sunnyrea



Series: The War [23]
Category: 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF
Genre: 1778, Established Relationship, Historical, Lams - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-22
Updated: 2018-07-22
Packaged: 2019-06-14 17:00:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15393330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunnyrea/pseuds/Sunnyrea
Summary: John Laurens and Alexander Hamilton join Baron von Steuben and his aides in a scouting mission after the battle of Monmouth encountering British troops and facing the fear of what could happen to each other through the war.





	Protection

The opening of July, the middle of their fourth year of war and directly after their battle draw in Monmouth, hangs thick with oppressive heat. Much of their army lies sick and injured, heatstroke as prevalent as physical wounds after such a rise in summer temperature. John Laurens no longer lies in a sick bed but works with the rest of General Washington’s staff at their headquarters in Ross Hall very near the banks of the Raritan River.

“Fitzgerald still weathers on through his injury,” Robert Hanson Harrison says as he enters their busy office. “I cannot say for any positive progress, however.”

Tench Tilghman skirts quickly around their table, all the aides standing at their work with so much at hand. “Can we not do more for him? I would be glad to lend my hand.”

“You are not a doctor, Tilghman,” Harrison says gently. “McHenry would be better suited.”

“And he does so,” Alexander Hamilton says looking up from the letter he opens.

Laurens purses his lips, unable to find any rebuke of the man he often decries if he lends his physician skills for one of their family.

“But will he recover?” Richard kidder Meade asks.

“He said he had no knowledge of positive progress,” Laurens adds. “We can do no more than wait.”

“Says the man up from his own bed,” Hamilton hisses at him as he hands Laurens a stack of correspondence from the field of battle.

“I did wait.”

“Ah yes, a night?”

“A day.”

“Such a concession.”

“I am well,” Laurens hisses back as Tilghman beside Hamilton pretends to ignore their needless griping.

Hamilton looks up at Laurens, his fingers pausing on their papers. “As well as any other man with heatstroke and a gunshot wound.”

“A gunshot bruise.”

“A wound no less.”

“And after his behavior with Brandywine and Germantown,” Harrison says abruptly, “would you expect a week’s recuperation?”

Laurens and Hamilton turn to Harrison then look to each other. Laurens knows he should be more apologetic, but he cannot feel mournful for joining their work as swiftly as possible; not with the behavior of General Lee and the upset of the battle. His shoulder may ache, yes, but he has suffered worse thus far. 

Hamilton breathes out through his nose in resignation in the face of Laurens’ silence. “Yes,” Hamilton says to Harrison though he still stares at Laurens. “I should not expect different.”

Such words from Hamilton make Laurens feel remorseful more than any other thing could. He wants to cup Hamilton’s cheek, lie down beside Hamilton to rest with Hamilton’s body as a balm if that would ease his worried and disappointed look.

“Have you found the orders sent to Lee?” Harrison asks.

Laurens turns away from Hamilton’s remonstrations. “Most I believe.”

“I have another,” Tilghman says. “The first reconnoitering.”

“Shall we all give testimony as well?” Meade asks.

Harrison takes the papers from Laurens and Tilghman. “I cannot say who the court martial trial shall call, those closest to Lee on the field, no doubt.”

“The less time to waste upon him the better,” Laurens grumbles.

Hamilton nudges Laurens’ arm. “Was it not you calling for the punishment he deserves?”

Laurens snorts, leaning over to make a note on a separate letter to send to Congress. “I could judge him easily now.”

Hamilton briefly touches Laurens’ hand, his attempt of forestalling Laurens’ rant. Laurens wants to curl their fingers together. 

“The court martial shall provide justice,” Hamilton says. “We shall move on.”

Laurens smiles at Hamilton. “Yes.”

“Bonjour, eh, Hamilton and Laurens?”

The pair of them turn to Lafayette now in the doorway.

“Oui, notre héros?”

Hamilton and Tilghman both laugh quietly at Laurens’ praise of Lafayette, Tilghman with a quiet “oui, oui.”

Lafayette shakes his head. “Ah, you charm.” Laurens raises his eyebrows and Lafayette gestures them both to join him.

“Do you tease him or me?” Hamilton asks quietly as they turn out into the hall.

“I only speak true of our hero.” Hamilton raises his eyebrows and Laurens lets the back of his hand brush over Hamilton’s. “You I call, très cher.” 

Hamilton smiles fondly, his eyes on Laurens’ lips.

They follow Lafayette across the hall to just outside the General’s office. Within, Laurens sees His Excellency, General Wayne, Baron von Steuben, Captain Benjamin Walker and General Knox.

“Full house,” Hamilton mutters.

“A court martial shall cause,” Lafayette says then speaks into the office. “Baron?”

The Baron turns his head, Wayne looking too and giving Laurens’ a scowl clearly related to the discussion. Then the Baron leaves the table debate of General Washington’s office, Walker following behind him.

“Are we to be leased?” Hamilton asks.

“Yes,” Walker says as Lafayette says, “more borrowed.”

“The same,” Laurens and the Baron say at once.

Hamilton chuckles.

“You both are needed for something other than Lee and the court martial,” Lafayette says.

“Ja.” The Baron grins. “The British be our aim.”

“Oh?” Laurens says without guarding his eagerness; as much as he wishes to see Lee set down, he would also prefer action to answer with after Monmouth.

“The British are encamped near,” Lafayette says. “At Hopewell.”

“We shall scout their lines and state,” The Barons says – Laurens feels a familial sort of pride in the progression of the Baron’s English. “Eh... could fight more.”

“We go to determine their intent,” Walker adds. “And would prefer more aides with front line reconnoitering experience.”

“You demean yourself unnecessarily,” Hamilton says.

“We are practical,” Walker retorts.

“Your sword and your pen,” The Baron says pointing to Laurens then Hamilton.

“Not my sword?” Hamilton says in half offense, half amusement.

“Simply more eyes,” Lafayette says in a mollifying manner. “That is of the most import. It is a whole army to view.”

“You need not explain further,” Laurens cuts off the pleasantries. “We are ready to serve.”

“Always,” Hamilton adds and Laurens sees Hamilton looking at him, a smile on his face.

“We leave soon,” the Baron says then nods and marches to the front of the house.

Lafayette grins at them. “Bon chance. And,” he looks to Hamilton while pointing to Laurens, “Watch he does not gain another wound.”

Laurens gapes. “Marquis! I am well. I do not need –”

“Oh, I shall attempt my level best,” Hamilton says, turning Laurens around by the arms toward the front door before Laurens may bluster more.

 

Laurens and Hamilton ride with Baron von Steuben and the three aides of his office, Pierre Du Ponceau, Walker and William North. They ride quietly through the woods, near the river and nearer still the British lines. In their mutual retreat, they did not expect to overtake the British so soon. Yet the British wait for them. The six of them do not ride to engage but to assess the British encampment and intent. It is possible the British wish to engage again sooner and restart the fight. They may also lick their wounds as the Continental army does. Surely the heat hit them just as hard.

Hamilton and Du Ponceau ride beside the Baron, Walker far in front with Laurens and North behind. They seem very much like a flock of birds. Laurens does wonder at the Baron joining them, one of his rank and importance. Still he will be best to assess the British troop state being their most experienced man at European war.

The six of them chatter amicably on their ride for some half an hour – mentions of Lee in the battle, Du Ponceau joking about sweaty men, ruminations on how the battle’s result may lead them, concern over their troops, the Baron joking about a better uniform for the heat involving less clothes. Walker, in the lead, continually commands them to keep their voice low while the Baron continually reminds him whom is in command. Laurens feels cheered, calm and content with this minor band of men around him; or perhaps the oppressive heat of the day makes his head hazy. He watches Hamilton’s smile, the blue of his eyes, and point of his chin as he turns his head toward the Baron or glances over his shoulder. Laurens thinks Hamilton looks very well in this forest scene, his red hair with the green leaves and glint of sun.

“I heard you were injured at Monmouth,” North asks Laurens, his voice low, breaking Laurens out of his serenity.

Laurens make a dismissive noise. “Hardly.”

“He was,” Hamilton says over his shoulder. “And still is.”

North looks at Laurens in alarm. “Then surely you should not be –”

Laurens cuts North off. “It is a mere bruise.”

Hamilton scoffs and the Baron says something to him Laurens cannot hear. 

North sighs, his gaze clearly drawn to the man at the front of their company. “It must be difficult,” North says. “In such a state to feel helpless to aid.”

Laurens purses his lips and glances away. “We have said before, it is war, and injury may come despite our efforts… or because of them.” Laurens is not blind to his own behavior. His voice drops lower. “And we help each other as we can.”

“But when it is you both and you can do nothing for the other.”

Laurens glances back at North. “How do you mean?”

North looks at him. “With your Hamilton struck down as well.”

“Though we may be alone, I did ask you not to call him – pardon, did you say, ‘struck down?’” Laurens’ eyes shift enough to see Hamilton stiffen in his saddle. “Do you mean to say, Hamilton injured in the battle as well?”

North gives him a very confused look. “Yes, early as I was told. A fall from his saddle with his horse shot.”

“Excuse me?”

“A fall is not an injury per se,” Hamilton shoots over his shoulder.

“I saw you,” Du Ponceau exclaims around the Baron toward Hamilton. “You were forced to leave the field.”

Laurens’ jaw clenches. “Was he?”

“Due to my horse,” Hamilton says hotly, “not any serious injury to myself!”

“‘Not any serious injury,’” Laurens parrots, “meaning there was some? Much like a bruise but not a gunshot wound?”

“Do not compare to yourself,” Hamilton says, twisting in his saddle to point at Laurens.

“But did you not also suffer heatstroke as so many others?” North asks.

Hamilton’s mouth snaps shut and he turns back around in the saddle. Laurens thinks very much that he wishes to throttle the man. Before he may say more, however, Walker suddenly whistles. The six of them veer off the rudimentary road into the thick of the woods, back as far as their horse can, using what cover available to hide their presence. Walker must have seen something. 

They keep their horse steady, spread out, quiet. Laurens peers to his left, searching out Hamilton. He cannot clearly see him among the trees which is comforting and alarming.

After only five minutes, Walker whistles again and they move back out to the road.

“The enemy?” The Baron asks.

Walker nods. “I saw some red, scouts I believe, Baron.”

“Did they see you or us?” The Baron asks.

Walker shakes his head. “I cannot be certain.”

“Their lack of pursuit should mean no?” North guesses.

Laurens and Hamilton look to each other. The British can be sly if they choose.

“We press on,” the Baron orders.

As they ride back on the road, Laurens gives Hamilton a look. “Do not imagine I should forget your subterfuge.”

Hamilton raises his eyebrows. “Your state was worse than mine.”

“No.”

“Indeed, it was.”

“You know my meaning.”

“Quiet now,” the Baron hisses and they fall silent.

It takes only fifteen more minutes of riding before the sound of the enemy camp becomes clear. The six men dismount, Du Ponceau taking charge of the horses and falling back, ensuring any need for escape. They walk on off the road and into the woods. The Baron puts a hand to his temple, indicating his eyes. He gestures Walker right, Laurens and North left, and Hamilton with the Baron straight on. Laurens sees North look quickly at Walker. None of them protest, army discipline remaining despite the mix of relationships known between all of them. Duty first. 

Laurens looks at Hamilton as the party splits. Hamilton takes one step close enough to graze his fingers over Laurens’ then turns to creep forward into the trees with the Baron.

“He does like to meddle,” North whispers as Laurens and he move slowly through the brush.

Laurens frowns as he keeps his eyes forward and alert. “You call this meddling?”

“If you heard his mind more, you would agree.”

Laurens huffs quietly. “I can imagine.”

“He may wish to ask after your qualities in the bedroom.” Laurens turns an extremely shocked and offended look on North. North smiles in obvious lieu of a laugh. “Or he may simply wish to draw Hamilton out more.”

“Oh?”

“He is the skittish one.”

“You think Hamilton the skittish of we two?”

“Of we five.”

“Skittish?”

“Would ‘Private’ be a better word?”

“Yes.”

North gives Laurens a contemplative look as they walk. “Wait now, would you think yourself more the skittish then?”

Laurens frowns. He is ill fond of the word, makes him think of a new born foal or lamb. “Cautious, I say.”

North scoffs near silently. “I have heard tell of your actions in battle. You, sir, are not cautious.”

“My behaviors are not confined to the battlefield,” Laurens snips back, louder than he intends.

Then North puts a finger to his lips with a sly smile. “Shh.”

The two of them trek closer to their quarry, quiet and fast, trying to make for the farther side of the encampment away from the river. Laurens makes notes once they are in sight with a pencil on a small pad, North saying something every so often to add, his eyes better than Laurens’. They see two medical tents with a bustle of activity; they count the men, rows of occupied tents, and horses they spy. North points out a detail of soldiers clearly on burial duty.

“As many as us?” North asks.

Laurens unconsciously pulls at his cravat near stuck to his skin. “The heat hit them too.” 

“As much as bullet and cannon.”

The pair of them encroach closer, Laurens with his pistol at his side now. They are still within the trees, but they would not be impossible to spot.

“They do not appear to be preparing for a follow up attack,” North says.

“No.”

Then Laurens makes eye contact with a young soldier as he takes off his hat to rub away the sweat on his brow. He pauses in surprise, hat half off and hand frozen up in the air. It takes the other man longer to realize what he sees than Laurens.

“Back, now,” Laurens says, gripping North’s arm.

As they turn and hurry back into the trees whence they came, Laurens hears the man finally cry, “Captain!”

“Did we see enough to –” North starts but Laurens interrupts him. “No time to ponder now, we have as we have.”

North puts his fingers to his lips and whistles, high and sharp, far better than Laurens could. They increase their hurry to a run as Laurens hears more voices behind them. He has no plans to be shot simply reconnoitering. As they near their point of their break off with their compatriots, Laurens notices they are not the only members of their party engaged in flight.

The Baron appears on the road out of the trees, Hamilton shoving the Baron in the back with his pistol in hand. “Go!”

Laurens speeds up, sweat dripping down the back of his neck but he pays it no mind. “Hamilton!”

Hamilton looks at him quickly then turns back to the woods beyond. Laurens follows his eye and sees in the distance a number of men which must have pursued Hamilton and the Baron first. Laurens raises his arm quickly and fires at the closest one, the bullet catching the man in the leg so he falls.

“I do not know where they came from,” Hamilton says quickly, moving them backward toward their horse. “They appeared as if they knew.”

“A man saw me,” Laurens says, “not five minutes –”

“This was quicker, almost as soon as we parted,” Hamilton interrupts.

The British soldiers then break the trees, one firing in between the two of them. North unsheathes his sword and connects with the nearest man, the two trading blows. Behind them, the Baron shouts in Prussian and Laurens chances a look to see the Baron mounting his horse, Du Ponceau on his own and the rest untied, waiting.

“John!”

Laurens whips back around in time to duck the bayonet of a Private, Hamilton catching the end of the weapon with the butt of his pistol and wrenching it to the side away from Laurens. The man shouts in anger, twisting away from Hamilton and Laurens. Hamilton flashes a triumphant grin at Laurens just as North knocks into Hamilton, thrown back by his own opponent, both their hats tumbling off. Hamilton falls to one knee and North’s sword goes flying. The Private tries to grab Hamilton again but Hamilton scrambles away, grabbing the end of the man’s rifle so he falls and Hamilton uses the Private’s own rifle to hit him in the jaw. 

The officer attacking North, on Laurens’ opposite side, twists his sword around to attempt to stab North in the gullet but Laurens pushes North back and unsheathes his own sword with one hand in the same movement. The Britton just barely catches Laurens’ injured arm, making him drop his pistol. Laurens hisses and clangs his sword back against the other man’s, the sound loud and sudden. The soldier – he has such dark eyes – slashes his sword down in a low surprise but Laurens manages to jump back, catching it with the edge of his sword. The man deftly switches the hold of his sword and slams the pommel into Laurens’ shoulder wound. Laurens yells despite himself and lashes out viciously with a fist to the man’s face, hitting him right in the nose with a satisfying crack. The officer drops his sword in surprise as his hands fly up to his bloody nose. Laurens elbows him in the gut and man falls.

Standing up beside him once more, North, sword and hat retrieved, huffs with a surprised noise. “Laurens, that was dirty fighting now, fists and elbows?”

“He hit my wound.”

“He did not know of that!”

“Oh I wager he guessed!”

“Down!” Hamilton suddenly drags Laurens low by his lapel and shoves North in the back.

A gunshot flies through where Laurens’ chest had been and another British soldier lunges into the space North occupied. Laurens falls onto the dirt with Hamilton, Laurens losing his hat this time and Hamilton’s hand still tight on Laurens’ uniform. Laurens’ sword hand wrenches in a painful angle so he groans. Laurens sees North struggling with a British lieutenant, a short sword between them. Then he looks up in time to twist away almost over Hamilton to avoid a rifle butt to the face.

“Blast!” The man shouts.

Laurens sees two more British and kicks out wildly, hitting something but he is unsure if it be a leg or gut or some other part. He hears one man shout and the sound of metal on metal. Hamilton rises beside him, gun flying up. Laurens hears a shot and a cry – Laurens has no idea when Hamilton reloaded. He looks left to see North’s feet slide on the dirt and the tip of his sword. Laurens’ wound hurts, his chest heavy with the humid air but he pushes himself up off the ground and gains his feet once more. He sees three redcoats on the ground, one bleeding, two more stunned. North slashes his sword across his opponent’s chest and the man falls down. Laurens turns in time to see Hamilton jump away from the dagger of one man, swinging with the butt of his gun that hits only air. Laurens still holds his sword in his hand. He swings it round and easily knocks the smaller weapon from the man’s hand, also slashing open his palm. The man cries out and falls to one knee, cradling his hand.

“Come along!” Du Ponceau shouts from behind them. “We flee!”

Indeed, the men before them will certainly not be the last with the noise they make and their fight so close to the British encampment. The man with the cut palm tries to reload his pistol but Hamilton quickly lashes out. He hits the man across the face with the butt of his gun. Laurens sees blood fly from the man’s mouth as he falls on his back, unconscious.

“You are in a mood for your gun,” Laurens says grinning at Hamilton, as he finally picks up his own from the ground where it fell.

“I am in a mood to not be captured,” Hamilton counters, handing Laurens his hat as he puts his own back on his head.

“Where is Ben?” North suddenly says, grabbing Laurens’ arm.

As they move quickly toward their horses, they look around, hoping to see him with the Baron and Du Ponceau. He is not.

“Ben!” North shouts.

“We cannot wait,” Hamilton hisses, the two of them pulling at North to keep him moving.

“What if he is taken?” North says desperately, fighting against them now as he attempts to turn instead into the woods. “What if he is injured?”

“Come, North!” Hamilton insists as he reaches his horse and puts a foot in the stirrup. “We cannot wait!”

“No!” North shouts, pulling hard, Hamilton having let go and only Laurens holding his arm. “I will not leave him!”

“North, please,” Laurens says, trying drag North toward his horse. “We have no choice.”

The scouts clearly sent after Laurens and North begin to march out of the woods, only two from what Laurens sees but most of the other men they just fought are not dead. North, however, pays no mind of the continued threat. “He should be back now, if we leave –”

“Damn!” Hamilton shouts, turning his horse about and adding shot to his pistol.

A gunshot flies past them, knocking back the lead British soldier. Laurens turns from the struggling North and sees the Baron with gun in hand.

“We retreat!” The Baron says. “Billy, mount your horse!”

North twists in Laurens’ grasp, stares at The Baron. “No...”

Du Ponceau suddenly sighs loudly. “Bon dieu, je vais alors!” He jumps down off his horse and bolts into the forest in the direction Walker first went.

All four men shout after him, “wait” and “stop” and a clear German curse.

Laurens thrusts his pistol into North’s hands. “Handle them!” He points to the enemy soldiers now rushing toward their horses.

“Wait!” North shouts but he must heave his hands up to block a bayonet thrust with his sword and Laurens’ gun as Laurens runs after du Ponceau.

“John, no!” Hamilton shouts but Laurens keeps moving.

He would be better help to Walker than Du Ponceau and if he does not go then North would run instead and his expression appeared far too wild for any real aid. In truth, Laurens feels as North and would not leave a man behind if he can still do his utmost.

Laurens catches up to Du Ponceau quickly. Du Ponceau shoots a look at Laurens but says nothing; apparently not surprised. They have no certainty of where to run, however.

“You this way and I here,” Laurens says, pointing Du Ponceau toward this river and himself nearer the road.

They split apart without a fuss and Laurens hurries on, pushing back branches. He thinks perhaps he should shout for Walker, they are exposed and what should secrecy matter for now with the noise Laurens’ feet make. Laurens thinks clearly for a moment that this attempt at searching is folly what with so much woods and no true path to follow. They should not be doing this. However, as he moves fast and debates his choices, Laurens suddenly hears the clear sound of fighting. He pushes through thick underbrush toward the sound to find a far less fair fighting scene than their own on the road.

Three men attack Walker – one holds Walker’s arms as another punches Walker’s stomach and chest, the third hitting Walker in jaw. It does not appear to be the first time from the blood on Walker’s face and the split of his lip.

Walker lashes out with a kick just missing the one man, spitting his own blood at them. “Bastards!”

“Fuckin’ turncoats!” The man who hit Walker’s jaw hisses.

Walker tries to knock his head back to crack the man holding him in the nose, but the man jerks his head away in time. “Oi, ya arse!”

The main puncher gets in another hit to Walker’s upper chest so Walker groans loud and his knees start to give. None of them manage another punch. Laurens knocks both of the men in front of Walker back using his shoulder and his sword. As he pushes them, he swings his sword arm out wide to just catch the lapels of the two men, sending buttons flying.

“Christ!” One man shouts in alarm.

Then Laurens hits the face puncher in the jaw with the pommel of his sword and turns to clash his sword against the ready weapon of the second man.

“Where did –” Laurens cuts the man’s confusion off with another slash of sword on sword.

The man trips back over his fallen friend, his arm flying wide and Laurens stabs straight into the Britt’s shoulder, so he shouts and falls to the ground too.

Laurens turns back to retrieve Walker. He sees Walker on the ground, hands on his knees. Then the butt of a gun slams across the side of Laurens’ face. He staggers but keeps his feet. His vision blurs for a moment, his concentration hazing – the heat dulling his senses, the pain in his head, the ache in his shoulder. Then Laurens snaps up straight once more, turns to the man just finishing the loading of his pistol. He points it quickly at Laurens, finger on the trigger, then he makes a strangled noise. He grasps with his free hand at blood coming now from his neck. Laurens’ eyes widen with surprise as the man falls, nearly hitting Walker. Laurens turns his head and sees Du Ponceau holding a rifle – likely belonging to the British soldiers – the end still smoking. His expression is one of surprise and elation.

“Shall we?” He says, dropping the rifle and grinning as only a youth of eighteen having just killed a man could.

Laurens sheaths his sword once more and crouches beside Walker. “Come along.” He grips Walker’s arm and puts it over his shoulder, pulling Walker up. “You thought to play out here with these boys in the woods?”

“I think you make a lewd joke, sir,” Walker mutters as he stumbles beside Laurens. “I shall tell Hamilton.”

“He would laugh as heartily.”

“Then I shall tell Billy.”

Laurens huffs. “That would be a danger.”

“There will be more,” Du Ponceau says, coming up on Walker’s other side to help and carrying Walker’s hat. “We cannot linger.”

Laurens shuts his mouth and the two of them hurry Walker along back toward the road. As they reach the edge of the woods and their path, Laurens hears shouting.

“– and if we all are caught.”

“We are down to three!”

“…each lost a man!”

“More are coming now!”

“We are here!” Laurens shouts.

He sees them, North still standing on the ground, Laurens’ pistol in hand guarding two of the conscious soldiers on their knees, Hamilton and the Baron still on horseback. But he also sees something else. In the distance, where the road leads toward the British encampment, are dragoons.

“Laurens!” Hamilton shouts, pulling at his horse’s reigns. “Hurry!”

A group of at least ten dragoons ride down the path toward them. Du Ponceau swears and Walker groans loudly.

“Ben, my God!” North turns quickly away from his charges and toward their party.

He touches Walker’s face as they close the gap, the visible bruising and blood of his lips.

“Retreat!” the Baron shouts.

“We have no time for such reuniting!” Hamilton barks too.

“To horse,” Laurens says, coaxing Walker to stand totally on his own. “Now.”

The four of them break apart toward their horses. North tries to help Walker walk, speaking low with his hand on Walker’s cheek. The men whom North had held under guard now run away from them, one stumbling wildly, back toward the riding redcoats.

“Laurens, please!” Hamilton says to hurry Laurens on.

Laurens looks up at him briefly, all the focus of the fight gone for a moment as Hamilton looks at Laurens in real, frenzied worry – Laurens knows somehow that Hamilton feared he would be forced to leave Laurens behind. Laurens grabs his horse’s saddle with both hands, puts foot to stirrup and heaves himself up once more, the last to be in seat. 

The Baron has ridden around behind the group of them now, Du Ponceau back with him. The two men fire off warning shots, making the Dragoons veer slightly in their ride but they are near upon them.

“Ride now!” the Baron orders.

They kick their horses and almost immediately burst into a gallop down the narrow road, the six of them forced into pairs and then one by one with North in the lead. Walker appears stiff in the saddle from what Laurens sees, his fingers white but he does not stop. A gun shot flies by Laurens’ ear making Hamilton’s horse in front of Laurens throw its head around, but it does not try to shake Hamilton off.

Laurens hears shouting, a man says, “Yes – von Steuben, go to – the Prussian, yes.” The dragoons know who they have here in command.

“Baron!” Laurens shouts – the Baron at the rear where he should not be, exposed, the most valuable and now the most vulnerable.

Laurens’ sees a wild look on Du Ponceau’s face behind him. Laurens feels the same; the Baron cannot be captured now.

Then the Baron takes both hands off the reigns of his horse. He pulls one pistol from his belt, loading it quickly with powder and shot as his horse gallops straight on. He shoves the powder bag away in his saddle bag then pulls a second pistol from the opposite side of his horse, the second apparently prepared to fire. He turns around so swiftly in his saddle that his hat flies off his head – as if some highway man intent on nefarious attack. The Baron abruptly fires both pistols at once. Laurens hears one man cry out, twists around in his own seat to see a second man fall from his horse. The dragoons scatter to the sides of the road, two veering off into the trees to avoid trampling their fallen man. The other man shot slumps over in his saddle, his horse slowing and blocking three of the other riders. Laurens turns back around, hears the Baron make a triumphant noise and for a moment Laurens grins, overjoyed and younger than even he is. He sees Hamilton look over his shoulder a matching grin on his face as the six of them ride fast, the enemy falling further behind, and they toward safety once more.

 

“Are we far enough?” Walker calls back after some time.

The Baron and Laurens, now side by side at the rear, both look back over their shoulders. Laurens sees no pursuit behind them nor does he hear the sounds of any additional horse hooves. They have ridden at least twenty minutes without stop. If they see no pursuit there must be none. Laurens looks at the Baron who nods in agreement.

“We have no pursuit,” Laurens replies.

“Good,” Walker says, slowing his horse and causing the rest to do so, “for I feel I may fall now.”

Du Ponceau and Hamilton stop on either side of Walker. Walker leans toward Hamilton in his saddle. Hamilton reaches out and holds Walker up as North and Du Ponceau quickly dismount to help Walker down. 

“Ben,” North says urgently. “Do you still bleed? Oh, dear Ben.”

“I do not bleed as I see,” Walker says as he leans on Hamilton. 

Hamilton looks down at his own uniform between them. “Do you not?”

“Mon dieu...” Du Ponceau mutters as he and North reach up and help Walker from the saddle.

“Set him there,” The Baron says as he jumps down from his saddle, Laurens and Hamilton following suit.

“We should not linger long,” Hamilton says.

“If he cannot ride,” Laurens says low.

“He rode this far.”

“But if he can stand no more...”

“If he cannot ride, we make him ride,” Hamilton hisses.

“I can hear you,” Walker moans, now sitting on the ground leaned against a tree.

Laurens and Hamilton look to Walker, North crouched on one side and Du Ponceau on the other.

“They speak true,” the Baron says as he loads his pistol once more. “We are safe at present but, eh, not long.”

“We cannot be sure they still may not pursue,” Du Ponceau says quietly.

“He is injured!” North hisses, his hand resting loose at Walker’s cheek. “Would you risk his life?”

“We risk it here!” Du Ponceau retorts.

“I am not dying!” Walker says indignantly then grimaces in pain.

Laurens walks over and crouches low beside the trio. He starts to unbutton Walkers waistcoat. North makes an indignant noise but Hamilton grips his shoulder. “Wait.”

“I had a thought once to be a doctor,” Laurens explains as he touches spots on Walker’s chest, feeling for any give of bone or change in expression on Walker’s face.

“Did you?” Hamilton asks quietly.

“It was not to be,” Laurens says by way of explanation.

“Pierre,” The Baron says sharply from behind them.

Du Ponceau stands up to join the Baron in watching their rear. Laurens would think it better if North joined them too but his hand grasps so hard to Walker’s Laurens doubts he could persuade him. Then Laurens feels an odd spot on Walker’s chest and Walker hisses hard.

Laurens tilts his head. “There?”

Walker nods in a jerky manner. Laurens presses carefully but he does not think he feels a break in the bone. It could be a lesser break or simply his knowledge is too lacking. “I suspect a cracked rib but I cannot be certain. You could bleed internally too; little we could do for either now.”

“You must do something!” North insists, his face wild as it had been when he fought to chase the other man.

“I am no true doctor.”

“But we have such at camp,” Hamilton says gently, “We must press on.”

“But–”

“Yes,” Walker says, “I am recovered now. I needed only a brief rest.”

“Ben, no, you –”

“We have no choice, William.”

“He could share your saddle,” Hamilton says to North, his tone of voice some attempt at levity, then looks over his head to Laurens. “I can assure you that two to a horse can be quiet thrilling.”

Laurens smirks back, his face aching some from his pistol whip. The pain must show because Hamilton’s expression shifts into masked concern.

“Now,” the Baron says appearing behind where Laurens crouches once more. “We have waited long. We must ride. Up.” 

The Baron reaches down with both hands toward Walker. Walker grasps them, and the bigger man pulls him up. Walker gasps with pain once but stands sure. The Baron stays standing close to him for a moment. He pushes back some of Walker’s hair then kisses his brow, Walker’s eyes closing and some soft words in German from the Baron. Then the Baron turns to du Ponceau, taking back his pistol.

“Mount,” he orders. “We must return, quick.”

Hamilton and Laurens glance at each other as they move to their horse, North helping Walker into his saddle once more. Hamilton reaches up briefly to touch the started bruise on Laurens’ own face. “And you?”

Laurens shakes his head. “Hardly a thing to mention.”

“Hardly not to,” Hamilton says low.

“Hamilton, I am far less –”

“It is not a measure of severity it is a concern of injury at all.”

“To your horse, Colonels!” The Baron snaps.

The Baron is right to concern, they stopped on the road, exposed, so recently attacked and chased and one of their number near infirm now. Laurens and Hamilton move hurriedly to their horse, Walker still struggling to mount his own. 

“Do not do that again,” Hamilton says to Laurens once they both sit astride their mounts.

“Hamilton, we could not leave –”

“I do not doubt your reason only to remind you of the heart you ran from.” Hamilton’s face looks as pained as North’s for a moment, more fear than Laurens realized. “Do you think because I do not cry as North, I do not feel as fully or ache for you away from me in battle, even one small and brief as this? How many times must you be wounded? I know the field of battle is wide and we have little choice in our positions but this, this here, this could keep you beside me where I might ensure your safety. You know how little we have such. Do not discount me!”

Laurens’ eyes tick to the men in front of them. North’s horse stands close to Walker’s, the latter finally in seat, so North may still touch his arm, his eyes intent; North and his affection appear too easily seen or perhaps it is just the safety of them. Laurens and Hamilton have spoken of safety before or the lack of it.

Laurens looks back at Hamilton; wants to kiss him hard and grip him tight and near. “I know your heart and I shall not discount it.”

Hamilton nods. “Good.”

“We ride,” the Baron cries, galloping ahead to lead their small company on.

 

The six of them ride fast and silent, nearer the river and less than fifteen more minutes before they sight the edges of the Continental camp. They follow the river, the army encamped on both sides, until They reach Ross Hall. They must report the findings of their reconnoitering and, of course, their brief skirmish and near capture.

As they stop their horse at the rear of the house, the back door opens in a rush, nearly slamming against the wall of the house.

“And what now?” Tilghman says as he hurries down the stairs of the back porch.

“A mere skirmish,” Laurens says as they all dismount, Hamilton quick to move and help Walker.

“A skirmish where a man needs assistance from his horse?” Tilghman replies tersely.

“Yes.”

“I think it more planned than we realize,” Hamilton says as he helps Walker to the ground and the servants swarm to manage the horses.

Laurens frowns as Tilghman says, “What do you mean to say?”

“One officer we had temporarily captured knew the Baron’s name.” Hamilton looks to Laurens as he speaks. There had been little time to mention sooner with the dragoons upon them.

“And on our chase,” Du Ponceau says, “I heard again.”

“There clear intent was the Baron,” Hamilton says.

“There was a point I thought us spotted,” Walker says with some guilt to his tone.

“No matter,” the Baron says moving toward the house. “You see, I am not caught.” He flashes a look back at the five of them. “Nor you.” 

Lafayette appears at the back door. “Baron, you are returned.” He looks beyond the man to the group of them and frowns. “Mon dieu.”

“Yes, returned, uncaptured,” the Baron says. “But I have lost my hat.”

Lafayette’s eyebrows fly up as the Baron walks past the Marquis and into the house. Lafayette looks back at them once more. 

Lafayette gapes. “His hat he says? A good hat?” 

“We care of a hat with our friends thus injured?” Tilghman hisses.

Lafayette’s eyes widen. Du Ponceau walks up the stairs, flashing a look of confused concern back at the four of them once he is past Tilghman. Then he follows the Baron into headquarters. Lafayette looks for a moment as though he may come to their rescue but then he makes an apologetic face and returns inside. Laurens rather wants to call him back.

Tilghman stares at the quartet. “What happened for you to return so? Could you not manage a scouting mission without harm?”

“Tench…” Hamilton starts.

“How many times sent out on what should be a thing of usual procedure and yet you two return with all injury found!”

“How often so?” Hamilton cries indignantly.

“Walker is worst hurt,” Laurens counters.

“Now I say!” North says with insult.

Walker huffs, leaning his arm over North’s shoulders. “He is correct.”

“As am I!” Tilghman snaps. “Before Brandywine, you.” He points to Hamilton. “And also your mill burning.”

“I was merely wet...” Hamilton says lamely.

“Or with heatstroke perhaps?” Laurens gives him a look. “I have not forgotten.”

“Well now…”

“And you at Germantown!” Tilghman insists again toward Laurens.

“Must Germantown always be thrown at me? Are we speaking of true battles? You cannot condemn such!”

“I can condemn all I like when an aide–de–camp behaves such.”

“You sound as matronly as Harrison,” Laurens says in indignation, he is hardly wounded now and Hamilton none. “This is paltry!”

“Oh, I shall bring Harrison to have more words!”

“Tilghman!” Laurens cries as Hamilton says, “Oh Tench...”

“And why do you yell so?” Meade walks out through the back door suddenly. James McHenry walks beside him with what appears to be bandages and medical supplies in hand.

“Ah ha, I see, our wayward aides and in a state too.” Meade frowns at Walker leaning on North. “Should you not be seen to?”

“Yes,” every other man saving Walker says.

Walker nods. “Then see to me.”

“That would be my charge,” McHenry says as he walks around Tilghman toward Walker. “The Baron mentioned you had need.” He puts a hand to Walker’s face, turning it left and right. 

Tilghman’s lips purse in what could be concern or anger, likely both. North watches, obviously wishing to do more.

“Come follow me then,” McHenry says. “You can sit inside for a moment and I may see how I can be of help.”

Walker smiles in a tired way. “Sitting sounds grand.”

McHenry gestures up toward the house and heads back inside. North fixes Hamilton then Laurens each with a look. It could mean any manner of things, Laurens cannot say now. Laurens thinks back to a conversation they had not long past – of battle and bigger fears than one’s own death. Then North turns Walker around and helps the man inside the house after McHenry.

“And you now,” Meade says. Meade slings his arm over Tilghman’s shoulder. “Why do you bluster so?”

“Bluster?”

“Our friends return –”

“With all manner of wounds!”

“And your welcome is a shout?”

“I am concerned.”

Meade makes a face much like a pout. “Yes, yes indeed.” He glances at Laurens and Hamilton still waiting in the grass. He points at Laurens. “I see one wound.”

“And Walker –”

“Oh, we count only our own aides now.”

Hamilton chuckles. “Meade...”

Meade waves a hand. “No, no, I think our welcome should be one of far more cheer, do you not?”

Tilghman deflates somewhat. “I am merely worried.”

“Mhm.”

“To see them return in such haste, blood I can see...”

“Mhm.”

“Kidder!”

“Do not mind him so,” Meade says as if a wife of a husband. “I think the stress of this court martial has him acting as Reed and Harrison made into one man of too much worry.”

Tilghman looks away. “I only think of Fitzgerald and now this...”

Meade’s expression falls for a moment at the look on Tilghman’s face, the knowledge of their own aide-de-camp John Fitzgerald so wounded in the battle. Laurens understands Tilghman’s overreaction now. The war rarely touches their office so directly.

“We thank you for your concern,” Laurens says to break through the tension. “I know it is from your heart.”

Tilghman’s looks back to them and his lips twist into a smile. Meade grins at Laurens from just behind the edge of Tilghman’s hair where Tilghman cannot see.

“I shall accept that as some sort of apology then,” Tilghman says, regaining his composure. “And not force the remonstrations of Harrison upon you.”

“He should find out regardless,” Meade mutters.

Laurens sees Hamilton shoot him a look. Laurens wonders why he suddenly fees very much a boy caught at playing in his new suit by his father. “Thank you, Tilghman.”

“I have a better plan for you, though,” Meade says, pulling his arm off Tilghman and stepping closer to Laurens and Hamilton. “There is the Raritan.”

“Why yes, Meade,” Hamilton says, voice heavy with sarcasm. “The river behind us, did you see?”

“Ham, keep your cheek.”

Hamilton’s eyebrows fly up.

“While you were off fighting the good fight with our Prussian war god.” Tilghman laughs behind Meade. Meade nods once as if an actor on stage after a poignant soliloquy. “Our common soldier has spent much of the afternoon bathing in the river so as to relieve much of this weather and under doctor direction for those with fever and heatstroke.”

“I would think that a full river,” Hamilton says, glancing over his shoulder.

“Not any longer.” Meade holds up a finger. “What with such things as fraternization between rank...”

“And men needing to attend to duties as well,” Tilghman adds.

“Yes, yes, turns and shifts and all that, we understand your particulars. Tilghman.” Meade sighs, shooting Tilghman a look. “Must I carry the merriment alone?”

“Our headquarters is heavy with court martial and loss,” Tilghman says low. “Perhaps you shall.”

Meade frowns and sighs. He looks to Laurens and Hamilton again. “I mean to say, that some of us and the other aides intend to allow ourselves a turn of water refreshment. It would do you both good as well. There.” He looks at Tilghman once more. “Is that sufficiently balanced between cheer and solemnity?”

“Yes.”

“You suggest we bathe in the river?” Hamilton replies dead pan.

Meade nods and smiles. “I do hope you swim.”

Meade turns around and grabs Tilghman’s arm. Tilghman sighs. “You think now?”

“Are you not hot?”

“Very.”

“Then come.”

“The General may...”

Laurens does not hear the remainder, however, as the two men continue away from the house toward the river. Laurens and Hamilton look at each other once more. Hamilton reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a handkerchief. He steps close to Laurens, gripping Laurens’ chin with his other hand. Hamilton wipes at Laurens’ face, a small amount of blood coming away. Some must be dried now and harder to remove. 

Hamilton frowns at his face. “Your jaw must hurt.”

“Less.”

Hamilton’s fingers stroke for a minute over Laurens’ skin where his hand holds Laurens’ jaw still, the handkerchief no longer really serving its purpose.

“The Raritan then?” Hamilton says.

Laurens smiles a little with Hamilton’s hand on him. “Do you think it wise?”

Hamilton drops both his hands, the handkerchief folded up to hide any blood. He cocks his head. “And why not so, will you be shocked and surprised at so much nudity before you? Why, a southern gentleman such as yourself has surely never seen such a sight of male exposure before.”

Laurens purses his lips. “I am serious.”

Hamilton huffs. “Oh, as am I.”

“Hamilton.”

“Laurens.”

Laurens gives him a look. “I am as warm and sweat soaked as you...”

“Are you?”

“But – I cannot think... it would not seem.... right.”

Hamilton stares at Laurens for a breath. “Do you fear for them, yourself or me?”

“Perhaps all three.”

“I think you worry unnecessarily.” Hamilton gestures down toward the river they can see well enough at their distance. “What should you do? Ogle and stare as if they presents on display? I know you to not be so base.”

“Perhaps not they,” Laurens says, lowering his voice. “But what of you?”

Hamilton smiles slowly. “It would not be the first you have seen.”

Laurens’ lip twitches. He wishes perhaps for a river at night. He looks up at the sun, still late afternoon.  
Then Hamilton grips his hand. “Come now, how can you refuse me?” 

“I cannot.”

Laurens and Hamilton walk down to the river. Hamilton pulls at his cravat as they walk, glancing at Laurens every so often. Laurens wonders if the rush of such a minor fight has made him flirty in this moment now. He does enjoy to tease.

When they reach the banks, they see Meade and Tilghman’s clothing stacked near, a jumble when they clearly became over eager of the cool water. Laurens sees them half way out where the water appears waist deep. Thank God. Hamilton takes his hat off his head then pulls off Laurens’.

“You would think they might retain their small clothes.” Laurens turns around to see North, du Ponceau and Walker, North having spoken.

“And how much modesty do you imagine that might maintain?” Walker says to North as he sits down on the grass with some difficulty.

Du Ponceau grins wide. “I see no problem.”

“Peter,” North hisses.

Laurens looks down the river and sees several other officers further off, some from a Virginia regiment and others from New Jersey if the uniforms left on the banks are any indicator.

“Should you not be convalescing somewhere?” Laurens says as he turns back to Walker.

Walker lies back on the grass. “Yes, here.” He points up at North. “Billy is my guardian as your McHenry could do little for any injuries I may have sustained within. You shall notice I am now free of blood.” He gestures toward his merely bruised face.

“But not bruises,” Hamilton remarks.

“Ha,” Walker says, as he starts to pull off his coat.

North crouches and helps him pull it off. Walker then removes his hat, folds up the coat and puts both on the grass behind him. He lays back on the coat. “There, I shall heal while you four frolic.”

“We shall not frolic,” Laurens says tersely.

“We won’t?” Hamilton and Du Ponceau ask.

“We were shortly in a battle, if you recall,” Laurens gestures to Walker.

“A skirmish,” Walker says without opening his eyes.

“I think this a mistake,” North says, his eyes looking fixedly at the ground around them.

Laurens thinks North of a similar mind of him.

“And what should you suggest?” Hamilton asks as he removes his coat and drops it on the grass with his and Laurens’ hats. “We five turn and leave?”

“Yes,” North and Laurens say.

“No,” Du Ponceau retorts, pulling at his cravat.

“Hamilton!” Meade shouts from the water, standing up taller so Laurens’ eyes shoot upward almost instantly. “Will you all stand in the heat and only watch the water? It will not help you!”

“I take more care with my uniform than you, Kidder,” Hamilton calls. Then he turns back to the other men as he unbuttons his waistcoat. “Well then, Meade, such a show.”

Laurens shoots him a look which Hamilton pretends not see.

“Come, gentlemen,” Hamilton says with a grin as he pulls his waistcoat off his arms. “Get ahold of yourselves.”

“Yes,” Du Ponceau says. “We have less time, eh? We deserve the cool, oui?”

“Oui,” Walker says. Then he holds up one leg. “William, help with my boots.”

“Oh, I see,” North says, finally pulling his eyes up to normal conversation height. “Now you are injured?”

“I did not say I was not.”

North smiles a little then steps over to Walker, pulling at his boots.

“Laurens, dear.” Laurens turns to Hamilton beside him. “You wear too many clothes for bathing in the river.”

Laurens stares at him as Hamilton untucks his shirt and slowly pulls it off over his head. Laurens thinks they both wear too many clothes and that the river is too full of other people. 

Walker makes a hissing noise on the ground then groans back in his throat.

“Oh Ben, I did not –”

“It is not you, I am bruised.” He cracks an eye open. “Some British used me as a punching game, did you not know?”

North sighs sadly. “Oh Ben…” 

North drops both of Walker’s boots to the grass then crouches down low again so he may run a hand briefly over Walker’s face. Walker smiles at him and touches North’s hand. “Do not fret.” 

Then Walker edges down close enough to the bank, pulling at his stockings, and puts his feet in the water, North watching him and lightly touching his hair.

“John?”

Laurens looks up at Hamilton again. He stands just a step too close, just too much skin Laurens wants to touch, and Hamilton certainly knows it. Hamilton taps one of the buttons on Laurens’ coat then reaches up and touches Laurens’ brow. His finger comes away with sweat, which he wipes on Laurens’ lapel. 

“See? You are in need.”

“Yes.”

“Oh, Arrêtez,” Du Ponceau says, his boots and the top half of his clothing somehow gone now as he pulls at his breeches. “When might you have such again, eh? Prendre plaisir!”

Du Ponceau sheds his clothing completely, winking at the lot of them over his shoulder. North sighs loudly. Then Du Ponceau taps his toes over Walker’s in the water and starts to wade out into the river. Laurens very assuredly does not look at his bare rear. Hamilton, still close to Laurens, sits down in the grass to remove his boots. He looks up at Laurens, his smile wide and his hair so bright in the lower sun connecting in the right way for fire.

“My Laurens.” He reaches up and tugs once at Laurens’ coat.

Laurens shifts his shoulders, careful of his Monmouth bruise and pulls the coat off. North stares with wide eyes at Laurens, as if Laurens has somehow betrayed him.

“You cannot deny their points.”

North huffs and looks away as Laurens starts to untie his cravat. “I certainly can.”

“North,” Walker chides from the grass.

“You were near killed not an hour past!” North hisses.

Walker holds up his hand to North. “But I was not.”

“And the river shall kill none of us now,” Hamilton says as he stands, only his breeches remaining on his body and all his clothing in a neat pile clear of the water’s edge.

“Viens viens!” Du Ponceau says from the water then changes over to German. “Sei kein Hühnchen Scheiße!”

“Fick dich!” North replies.

Du Ponceau splashes water in their direction. “Wann immer du willst.”

North huffs in annoyance.

Walker makes a tsking noise. “You are both learning the Baron’s swearing.”

Hamilton raises his eyebrows high. “And they aides–de–camp.”

“But not to his Excellency,” Laurens says seriously.

North and Walker both turn insulted looks on the pair of them. Hamilton only chuckles and turns back to Laurens. “Come now, would you leave me alone with Du Ponceau in this beautiful water?”

Laurens frowns. “Certainly not.”

“Laurens!” Meade shouts.

“Hamilton!” Tilghman shouts after him.

“Stop hanging about!” Meade continues. “Or you shall miss your chance.”

“The General will surely come to scold us soon!” Tilghman adds.

“Or Harrison.”

“I feel as though we might pick a more secluded spot,” Laurens says to Hamilton.

“We may be too late,” Hamilton says, his eyes watching Laurens’ hands as he slips the end of his cravat away from his neck. “We have been seen.”

Hamilton reaches out and unhooks one button on Laurens’ waistcoat. Laurens breathes in slowly and shakes his head. “Hamilton.”

Hamilton bites the edge of his lip then backs up two steps. “My apologies.”

“God...” North hisses to himself.

“Do stop teasing my Billy with your antics,” Walker says toward Hamilton.

Hamilton chuckles then backs up a few more steps. “Well then, gentlemen.” He unbuttons his breeches a touch slower than necessary and pulls them down with his small clothes, folds them up low in some manner of maintaining a fragile modesty. Then he places them on the top of his clothes piles and stands bare. Laurens stares despite their public place. “I shall see you all in the water,” Hamilton adds, winking once at Laurens.

“God...” North says again, his eyes up toward the sky. “I do not... I cannot imagine how you manage.”

Laurens smiles and glances at North. “Quite terribly, I assure you.”

“Well, he is handsome,” Walker says with a laugh in his tone.

“Ben,” North hisses.

“Oh, he knows this, I assure you,” Laurens says as he watches every inch of the man that is his wade out into the water.

Du Ponceau reaches Hamilton, saying something which makes Hamilton laugh. Well that certainly will not do. Laurens bends over trying to pull at his boots without sitting down but rocks into North, losing his balance.

“Laurens, no,” North says pushing Laurens up to right again allowing Laurens to yank one boot off. North hisses again, “No.”

“It is not a harm, North,” Laurens says. “Most are far enough away. What temptation do you fear?”

“I have no desire to see even you without your uniform!”

“Do you not?” Walker says.

“Ben!”

Laurens grins at the two of them. “I trust you with my immodesty. No doubt your eyes should prefer another regardless.”

North finally looks at Laurens again as Laurens puts one hand on North’s shoulder to use him as a balance for his other boot. 

“You need not worry over yourself,” Laurens says quietly as he eases off his second boot. “I understand your fear, but you are a man, not an untamed beast. You need not fear yourself.” Laurens stands up straight and drops the other boot. “I do not say I am at peak comfort, but I think we may manage.” Then Laurens glances to Walker. “And you have him near still.”

North smiles hesitantly. “I do.”

Laurens pulls at the buttons of his waistcoat. “And were you not the man so bold at a party I recall?”

North turns away, a flush to his cheek. “I have some regrets there and less alcohol now.” Then he looks back, finally smiling. “But yes.”

Laurens smiles back then side steps away. He shrugs out of his waistcoat, followed by his shirt. North keeps his eye forward though Laurens sees Walker sneak a glance toward him as Laurens works at his breeches buttons. Laurens stares out at the water. He sees Hamilton watching him, Meade and Tilghman closer to him now.

“At least dip your feet,” Laurens says. “It is sweltering.”

Then Laurens strips himself of his breeches and small clothes. He hurries to the edge and into the water. He is not necessarily modest of his form but nor does he feel a need for display. He wades out quickly until the water hits his waist and Hamilton waits for him laid low in the water. 

“Hello.”

Laurens smiles down at him. He feels so deliciously cool, the sweat of the day changing into comfort as Laurens shifts his feet on the bottom of the river, so he may crouch and submerge up to his shoulders.

“Do not get your head wet,” Meade cries as he walks closer through the water. “You shall become sick.”

“Is that true?” Tilghman asks. “Certainly, it cannot be.”

“It is.”

“How should you know?”

“Because I do!”

“I think it absurd,” Hamilton says as he sits up more in the water. “Let us see.”

Then Hamilton jolts up, grabs Laurens about the neck and pulls him under the water. Laurens just manages a breath before he is submerged. Under the water, the river current flowing, splashing above them, eyes closed, Laurens feels Hamilton’s lips press hard against his, water in their mouths, Hamilton’s hand at his hip, Laurens’ hand over Hamilton’s chest; Laurens kisses Hamilton back and he thinks he should be fine to drown in such a watery passion as this. They resurface together, no more than ten seconds hidden, splashing water up and gasping. Hamilton laughs and Laurens pushes at Hamilton’s chest, an excuse to touch in the guise of rough housing.

“Oh, now Hamilton!” Meade chides, smacking the water’s surface. “Of all people to test this?”

“Oh, worry you not, Meade,” Hamilton says, swishing his arms over the surface of the water and his toes over Laurens’ underneath the water. “Laurens is stronger than any of us, not a battle to beat him yet.”

“And taken down by water,” Tilghman says. “Shame.”

“You all surely know I meant Hamilton.”

“Then it should be you to try,” Du Ponceau says to Meade.

Meade looks suddenly fearful. “No, sir.”

“Yes, sir,” Du Ponceau grins.

Meade turns and tries to run through the water just as Du ponceau lunges for him. Meade swims away, his head still dry above water as Du Ponceau pursues, splashing toward Meade and crying things in German.

“Monsieur, non!” Tilghman cries after du Ponceau, attempting to grab Du Ponceau’s waist to stop him.

Laurens thinks Du Ponceau is all together quite shameless.

“John?”

Laurens looks down at Hamilton floating near the surface of the water, the two of them now in a calmer eddy of the river. Laurens shifts down and lays himself out beside Hamilton – his wet and tantalizing and beautiful Hamilton. Laurens floats with less grace but the water is hardly deep. Laurens stares up at the sky, Hamilton’s fingers brushing over his under the water, over the water.

Laurens thinks about the dark eyes of the British soldier, North’s cries as he tried to pull away from Laurens to run toward Walker, the pounding hooves of the dragons. He thinks of Hamilton’s look at him just before they turned different ways in the woods, the touch of Hamilton’s hand on his bruised cheek, Hamilton’s kiss under the water, his naked body beside him right now.

“So cool,” Hamilton murmurs.

“My face feels hot.”

“There is still sun.”

“And you.”

Hamilton chuckles. “A fire fight in the forest and now floating free on the….” Hamilton makes a noise. “I can think of no ‘F’ for the river.”

Laurens chuckles. “Fjord?”

Hamilton scoffs quietly. “You best me.”

“’River’ serves well for me.”

Laurens turns his head enough to see Hamilton and still float. Hamilton stares upward as Laurens had. Laurens sees light catching off the water shining in Hamilton’s eye, as if he were some water nymph, some mythical creature born from the river, a treasure laid out just for Laurens to behold. Or perhaps he is just a man who Laurens wants beside him more than anything.

“You said you wished to be a doctor,” Hamilton asks, his eyes shifting to Laurens.

“Yes. I thought it a best way to use my interest and station,” Laurens answers. “Something meant to help and heal.”

“Your father?” Hamilton asks after a pause.

Laurens’ lips twist. “He preferred I study law.” Laurens clicks his tongue. “And now I fight here.”

“I had interest in such a profession too,” Hamilton says and then his voice matches Laurens’ cadence, “And now I fight here.” Laurens chuckles once as Hamilton’s fingers twist with his. “Fight and protect.”

“My boy,” Laurens whispers.

Hamilton turns his head this time, dipping more in the water. “My dear.”

A loud splash sounds across the water, some droplets hitting Laurens. The two of them sit up in the water. Meade appears to finally have been submerged completely as now he rages, his hair wet, at Du Ponceau. Tilghman laughs, jumping up then falling back in the water. The two act as young as Du Ponceau and just as uncaringly shameless with their selves. Du Ponceau seems happy enough to receive the angry or amused attentions of either man.

“The cad,” Hamilton says.

“And elated,” Laurens says with a smile.

Laurens glances back to the shore. North sits beside where Walker lays, his coat off and legs deep as he may go with breeches still on in the water. North gazes down at a resting Walker.

“John.”

Laurens looks at Hamilton, wet hair curling around his eyes, water at his chest. “Alex.”

“If you run toward possible danger in a wood again, take me with you.”

Laurens smiles fondly. “Even be it a true battlefield?”

“As best you can, as best I can. I know we cannot always but...” Hamilton touches the darker looking bruise on Laurens shoulder. “I feel you need someone to protect you.”

Laurens smiles still – Hamilton on horseback, Hamilton by his bedside, Hamilton shouting for him over gunfire. He thinks perhaps Hamilton does not realize how much protecting he has done thus far. In his heart, Laurens wants to keep Hamilton far away from fights and danger, but he knows Hamilton’s mind is as his.

“Should you tell me then of any of your injuries?” Laurens gives him a look he wishes were stern but he knows must only be fond.

Hamilton smiles. “Of course, because then I would be with you.” Hamilton’s fingers bush the muscles of Laurens’ arm. “So allow me to join you.”

“I will,” Laurens touches Hamilton’s other hand under the water, brushes his leg. “Whenever possible, I want to stay beside you.”

Hamilton grins. “Be it water or dry land.”

“My Alexander.”

Hamilton smiles slow and his fingers twirl the water around Laurens’ hand, hidden and open and cool and warm and his to hold. “And your dear.”

From the shore, Harrison suddenly shouts for them to return to work. Meade shouts back, Tilghman starts to trip toward the shore. Harrison says something about ‘proper duty.’ North stands up in a hurry as the Baron’s voice joins Harrison’s. 

Hamilton laughs lightly and squeezes Laurens’ hand. “Back to the war.”

And Laurens wants to pull Hamilton under the water once more to kiss him with no air. “To the war,” Laurens says.

**Author's Note:**

> This series is in the process of becoming a book, to keep up with the progress check out the book website [Duty and Inclination](https://www.dutyandinclination.com/) and my author [facebook page](https://www.facebook.com/DupontWrites).


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